


under the waters still and deep

by StripySock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: ohsam, Drowning, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mostly hurt, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2593436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a preseries hunt Sam risks his life to save a child and almost pays the ultimate price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	under the waters still and deep

**Author's Note:**

> For this [prompt](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/780850.html?thread=4103218#t4103218)

Getting Sam to do anything towards his training is nearly impossible these days. He sulks, he drags his feet, says precise, hurtful little things about how stupid the whole concern is, and though he usually bites his mouth shut and looks sorry afterwards, it never stops him from saying them. He's a six foot plus and still growing, walking mountain of teenage angst and if Dean could dismiss it as that being all it is, the sort of thing that Sam'll grow out of, he thinks he'd feel a lot better. It doesn't go away though and more than that - Sam's unhappy even underneath the attitude. Dean can see it in his face, and he doesn't have a clue what to say that'll make it better. When Sam was five, picking him up by the legs and swinging him around as fast he would go would put a smile on his face. When he was ten letting him pick where they ate was enough to snap him out of a bad mood. But Sam isn't five or ten anymore and there's these lines round his mouth that scream unhappiness, that Dean can't fix, because nothing'll make this better except giving in and that's the one thing he and Dad can't do. Sam has to learn to put up with it all just like the rest of them. There's some things worth fighting for and Dean knows what they are - them as a family and the people who’ve got no-one else to fight for them. It’s just too bad if Sam doesn’t understand that. He’ll learn, Dean’s certain of it (at least that's what he tells himself because he can't face the alternative).

So, it's like they don't even know how strong, how fast Sam's gotten, until he's hurtling past Dean and John and throwing himself right into the fucking line of fire - there's this monster at the bottom of the lake with a tongue twice as long as itself yanking visitors into its lair, and some stupid fucking tourist had let their kid go down to the edge by themselves, and who lets an eight year old do that? The irony isn't entirely lost on him. The kid’s being pulled through the water, screaming and Sam's swimming out with long fast strokes after it and he has nothing of use, just a belt knife, not the underwater flare gun John had bought just for this hunt,but apparently that doesn't matter. Dean's heart is thumping so hard he thinks he might die just from this, his heart exploding out of his chest because he's never felt so helpless in his entire life.

He's in the water only seconds after Sam, though it feels like a lifetime, kicking off his shoes as he goes, and God forgive him but for a second he doesn't think of the kid at all, just the futilely defiant arrow of his brother through the water, all singleminded purpose as he goes after the monster. It's not the fastest thing they've ever come up across - it's winter and it's slow, sluggish, hungry, an inertia to its movements that might be the only thing that saves them all. Dean's swimming as fast as he can, face in the water to maximise speed although every time he comes up for air the cold burns his lungs, vaguely hears John shouting something and surfaces just enough to see Sam slashing at something below the water with his pitifully small knife, a child locked around his neck screaming and kicking and trying to clamber onto his back, forcing him underwater, a fight on two fronts that he can't win. Dean's so close he can almost taste it - or maybe that's the ripples of thick green blood eddying out towards him from the scene.

When he gets there, the child is bobbing just above the water, half-dead but not all the way there and Dean doesn't know what to do because Sam's been dragged under by whatever that thing was. From pure instinct he grabs the kid, begins to tow them to shore, blind and deaf to everything else except the fear that Sam's dead, and then Sam's _there_ , on the surface of the water, facedown, blood from where he was grabbed by his arms coiling into the water as though he's of no more use to whatever the hell is down there. The beast had come back in close to shore, near the caves John had suspected were where it hid since it seemed almost amphibious rather than merely lake-bound, and Dean doesn't even know how he gets them all to shore, just that he does and then John's there, flare-gun discharged - so that's what the distraction had been - and dragging the little girl away, leaving Sam with Dean.

There’s this disloyal thought that’ll haunt Dean later, that flashes across his mind, that John will always put the victims first, above his family and for a second, in the trauma of the moment, it’s like he’s seeing things Sam’s way.

There's this moment where Dean hesitates because Sam looks dead, fishbelly pale skin, lank wet hair plastered against his cheek, face smooth and unmoving, and he can't even deal with that, can't function at the thought. Then reflex kicks in, he tries not to think about how long it's been in the water, how cold the day has become, turns Sam's head to the side as gently as he can manage, watches water leak out of him, before he gets started on CPR. For a minute or two it becomes his entire world - giant lungfuls of air pressed into his brother, ear pressed to an unmoving chest, and he doesn't know if he could stop, if even if there were no signs of life he could bring himself to call it done. He doesn't know if he's wet from the water or if he's crying, thinks it might be both, can't bear the thought that Sam goes like this, like a fucking hero, saving someone else when he'd never wanted to be there in the first place.

When Sam starts choking, desperately gasping for air and then retching weakly, curled on his side, Dean can't even feel relief, only the painful profound clench of his chest, like the air Sam's gasping in, is reviving him as well. He sits there, rubs Sam's back as he chokes it all up, foul lakewater spilling from him, harsh racking coughs tearing him apart, and Dean can feel the tremors running through Sam, the shivers twitching across his skin, how cold Sam is still, and the way he still feels like some dead precious thing next to Dean with the clamminess of his skin and the huge darkness of his eyes. He needs a hospital, he needs help, but Dean can't move, can only pass his hand across Sam's face and back, until John’s there, a breathing little girl held tight in his arms - and her parents are still nowhere to be seen - Dean starts wondering if maybe they’d been the first victims.

He sits between Sam and the kid in the back of the Impala, matches his breaths to the ones Sam takes - short and shallow, as though he still can’t quite believe that he’s breathing, catches John’s eyes in the mirror and realises he’s never seen his father so shaken as he breaks the speed limit to get them to the nearest hospital. It’s a shit-show all around, two strange men showing up with a kid and a teenager who are barely breathing but the nurses don’t look twice or ask any questions, just jump straight into action. It’s not the first time the Winchesters have been in hospital after a drowning, but it’s the first time that one of them has almost drowned and Dean listens as hard as he can to everything the doctors say about the risk of infection and pneumonia, of all the things that might have been in the lake. Focuses on the slow, steady pulse of Sam’s monitor when the doctor talks of potential heart problems, suggests keeping Sam in observation for a day at least. Wills strength into him because even their life can’t be shitty enough to punish Sam for a good deed like that.

John’s taking it all in as much as Dean is, short brisk nods, returned to practicality now that the danger is past, leaves them alone for a second to go to the front desk and deal with insurance, and Dean licks dry lips, can’t think of anything to say. Sam’s eyes are open and he’s breathing just fine though they’ve got him on oxygen just to make sure, and Dean can’t meet his stare. He doesn’t want to open his mouth because he doesn’t know whether he might start shouting at Sam, ripping into him for how stupid he was for jumping in after a fucking lake monster, when all he really wants to say is how proud he is that this is the man Sam’s growing to be, and he’s not sure which is worse, which would make Sam cringe and retreat more, so he doesn’t say any of the things he’s thinking, just moves closer and twists his fingers in the stark white sheets that have nothing on the dead man's pallor of Sam's skin. Heat of the crisis over, tongue held, he’s dumb now, but Sam seems to get it because there’s a half-twitch of a smile on his face, and he gets his hand up to drag the mask off.

“Is the kid okay?” he asks, and of course that’d be his first question.

“Yeah,” Dean says softly. “She’s good, but you need to rest.” He winces even as he says it, because it sounds mother-hennish enough that Sam’ll probably mock him for days over it when he’s better.

Sam doesn’t even seem to register it though, he’s giving Dean this look as though he wants something but doesn’t want to ask for it, and hell, Sam could ask for anything right now and Dean would get it for him, no questions asked. When he finally gets the words out after an extra puff of oxygen, his voice is still hoarse and quiet. “Dean,when you head back can you grab me my folder?

Dean knows exactly which folder Sam means. He keeps his homework in it, his essay questions, anything current that he needs to do, treats that folder like Dad treats his journal, and no way is Sam doing homework after today - he can feel an incredulous look creeping onto his face. Sam’s already shaking his head though before Dean even replies. “I mean it Dean. It’s school tomorrow and even if we’re leaving in a couple of days, it matters to me.” He just about gets that out, before the coughing starts, deep hacking coughs that sound like he’s still trying to throw up the entire lake, and Dean doesn’t have the heart to say no, not when he can hear the low down rumble in Sam's chest.

“Yeah alright,” he says, they’re about thirty minutes from the motel, and he’s already planning how to get there and back the fastest, when Sam grabs at his wrist and at least he’s warmer now, though his fingers dig in tight, leave these flushed then fading marks where he doesn't notice that his nails are against Dean's skin.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he says, low and fast like he needs to get the words out regardless of what it costs him. He doesn’t need to say anything more, Dean already knows what he means. It doesn’t change the fact that Sam doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to hunt, and if Sam was better, Dean would argue. Because of Sam there’s a little girl alive in the next room. But Sam’s looking at him as though he needs Dean not only not to argue but to understand, and Dean just can’t, can’t trace Sam’s thoughts or agree with his conclusions. Sam almost died today but it’s not the first time for either of them and it won’t be the last even though Dean would drain every drop of blood in his body to prevent it from happening to Sam. He doesn't know why it's different, why he'd die for Sam in a heartbeat but can't let him walk away. Sam gets it, he does, lets Dean’s wrist go, and curls back into himself, the white starched bed shrinking him down, a huddled mass under the blankets but not a drop of his stubbornness gone.

Then John’s there, paperwork in one hand and looking at Sam like he hung the moon, pride all over his face - written clear like so little he thinks is. “My boy,” he says, presses a rough hand on Sam’s shoulder like he wants to convey all his love and pride through that touch, like he thinks this is proof that Sam’s going to stay, as though it’ll wipe out the arguments and the vitriol that both of them have spat. Sam’s face crumples up at that, like John saying that eats at his resolve, and his eyes look like he’s drowning all over again. Dean can’t bear to watch the familiar unhappy lines creep back in to Sam's face, calls John out to talk about going back to the motel and tries not to watch through the door as Sam pushes his face into the pillows and remains as still as though Dean had never revived him at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback appreciated, concrit welcomed.


End file.
